breathing's just a rhythm
by literary deviant
Summary: "Breathe, Jason reminded himself, as he felt the rising panic in his chest. Just breathe. Don't freak out. Not here. Not where he can see." / Tim and Jason are nearly buried alive. It brings up some bad memories.


**AN: **Hope you enjoy this short story! It takes place sometime in the early days of Tim and Jason knowing each other. Jason has calmed down from the affects the Lazarus Pit has on his mind and no longer wants to kill Tim, but they're not friends either.

Warnings for bad language. Because it's Jason :p

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**breathing's just a rhythm**

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"We are so fucked," Jason declared.

He looked around at the small enclosed space he found himself in and willed his breathing not to speed up. Behind him, Tim was struggling with the ropes, attempting to free them from their bindings. The two of them had been hogtied together, arms pulled behind their backs, heavy ropes wrapped around their chests. They now sat back-to-back, legs bent and ankles tied together, in a small container no more than three feet wide. Above them, Jason could hear the sound of dirt being shoveled.

They had been lowered into a deep hole, at least six feet under. A living grave.

_Breathe_, Jason reminded himself, as he felt the rising panic in his chest. _Just breathe. Don't freak out. Not here. Not where he can see._

He could hear the heavy echo of the metal shovel above them. The walls were too close, felt like they were slowly closing in on him. The ropes pinched at his skin, rubbing his wrists raw, and Tim's back was pressed so tightly against his that Jason could feel the vertebrae of his spine through the kevlar.

"We're going to die down here," Jason said, mainly in an effort to drown out his own heartbeat, loud and rapid in his ears. "We're going to die, and it's going to be all your fault, all because you couldn't mind your own goddamned business, I hope you're fuckin' happy—"

Tim continued to wrestle with their restraints, making no indication he was listening. His elbow poked Jason sharply in the back.

"Ow! Watch it, replacement! The hell are you doing?"

"I'm trying to reach my birdarang," Tim snapped. "So if you don't have anything pertinent to add—other than the unnecessary commentary—then shut up. You're using up all our air."

Jason felt something hitch in his chest at the reminder. He'd been so hyper-focused on the dirt being shoveled on top of them, sealing them inside the earth, that he'd forgotten about the dwindling supply of oxygen.

Stupid. He'd been buried alive before, how had he forgotten about the _air_?

He tried to calm his breathing down, but instead he found it picking up. His chest constricted, panic settling over his mind, clouding it. _Calm down. Calm down—_

"Do you almost have it?" he asked, hoping to prevent the onsetting panic attack. His voice was shaky to his ears.

"Nearly. You know, you could try to help instead of sitting there waiting for me to rescue us."

Anger sparked in Jason's chest, only amplified by his fear. "In case you've forgotten," he snarled, "they stripped me of my weapons! What the fuck do you expect me to do, rip these ropes apart with my bare hands?"

"No," Tim muttered, "but a little more quiet would be nice. I can't think of a way out of here with you yelling right in my ear."

Jason clenched his jaw, biting down on his tongue. It felt like his heart was also encased in ropes, tightening with every rapid beat. His head felt fuzzy, the air refusing to reach his lungs.

He remembered the smell of the earth, of a cotton-lined box surrounding him. No oxygen to breathe, fingers scraping at the lid above him, ripping and tearing, nails peeling back—

_Calm down. Calm down, calm down, calm down, just fucking breathe—_

Tim had somehow managed to reach his birdarang. Jason could feel him working it against the ropes at their wrists. The weapon slipped, one of its sharp edges slicing deeply across Jason's palm.

"Ow!" Jason yelled. "_Fuck_! Replacement!"

"Sorry."

Tim continued to work on their bindings. Jason tried to calm himself down to better help him, but he couldn't do it. His pulse raced, his heart in his throat. All he could focus on was the sound of the dirt falling onto the top of the container above them.

He choked on his own breath, nails digging into his palms. "I've been buried alive before, you know," he said shakily. "It's not so bad…"

Behind him, Jason felt Tim go still, his movements freezing for a moment. Jason continued to choke down his terror, cold and freezing, woven between his ribs. _Get out. Have to get out. I can't die like this, I won't—_

Reality slipped away from him. He wasn't sitting up, he was laying on his back. Tim's solid back was actually a thinly-lined coffin, and the sting of his nails against his palm was actually from his nails peeling back, scraping desperately against the lid of the tomb encasing him.

The walls were closing in on him and there was no air to breathe. He was suffocating on his back, ripping and punching and kicking to get free, blood falling into his eyes—

_Fuck fuck fuck—_

"Jason. Jason, look at me."

The voice sounded as if it was coming from beyond a barrier of deep water. Hearing it was like fighting against the current of the ocean, struggling to break the surface.

All he could hear was his own rapid breaths. The beat of his heart. The dirt being shoveled on top of them—_can't fucking breathe—_

"_Jay_."

It was the name that caused him to focus, centered his vision. It concentrated him. Tim had never called him Jay before. Bruce had, and Dick, but never Tim.

Tim had managed to free himself without Jason realizing. He had maneuvered himself so that he was crouching down next to Jason—how he had managed it in such a small space, Jason didn't know.

His gloved hands were on Jason's shoulders, the whites of his domino mask gazing into his face. Jason tried to focus on him, on getting his vision to focus, his breathing to steady. But he was crouching _so fucking close_, and the walls were already too close, and his heart felt like it was wrapped in steel wires—

Tim reached out slowly. There were cold fingers on his cheeks, causing him to flinch back, and then his domino mask was being pulled from his eyes, lifted from his face.

"Jason. I'm right here. I need you to breathe, okay? I think I know how to get us out of here, but I need you to be calm first."

Jason tried to follow his instructions. There was no time to be embarrassed for his vulnerability—that would come later. In that moment, he focused on the chill to his previously covered face, on Tim's hands on his shoulders. He focused on slowing his rapid heartbeat, his racing pulse.

Tim's fingers brushed his forehead lightly—brushing the hair out of his eyes.

"There you go," he said. "I'm going to bust us out of here. You good now?"

Jason breathed in slowly, then breathed out. He nodded, repeating the process until he felt steadier.

As he calmed himself down, counting the seconds it took him to inhale and exhale, Tim pulled out his grappling hook and disappeared from sight. Jason didn't pay attention to exactly what happened after that, but somehow the two of them escaped the hole, and ended up sprawled on their backs on the ground. Feet away, the drug dealers were knocked out and tied up.

"There's still time for me to kill them," Jason said. "It'll only take a few shots—"

"Don't make me regret rescuing you," Tim said.

Jason scoffed. "_Rescue_? I was fine, replacement." Tim gave him a look Dick often referred to as Resting Bitch Face, and Jason sighed. "Alright, so maybe I wasn't fine. But we wouldn't even have ended up in there if you had been minding your own business instead of interfering in mine—"

"You were about to kill them! I was hardly about to stand there and just let you—"

"This is why I don't work with you guys, you and Bruce are just the same, it makes me fuckin' sick—"

"—and I saved your ass, is it so hard for you to say a simple _thank you_?"

Jason paused as those last words reached his ears, his mouth snapping closed. He turned his head, watching Tim next to him. He was covered in bruises and scratches, much like Jason, his dark hair falling across his forehead. Even with the mask obscuring his face, the younger boy's frustration was clearly obvious.

His nose was wrinkled slightly. Against the pale skin of his neck, Jason could barely see the thin scar, a faint line where Jason had once slit his throat.

Jason swallowed. Looking at it made him feel sick.

"Thank you," he said.

The domino mask concealed his reaction, but Jason got the impression that the third robin had blinked in shock at the words. He seemed struck silent.

There was something fragile about him like this, moonlight illuminating his face. An emotion Jason couldn't name rose up in his throat, and he swallowed it down.

"You're welcome," Tim replied finally, in a quiet tone.

After a quiet moment, Tim held out his hand, holding Jason's domino mask. Jason took it from his gloved fingers, his hand lingering a moment longer than was necessary.

"I mean it," he said. "Thank you, Tim."

Tim froze. Then, slowly, a smile curved at his lips.

It was the first time Jason had called him by his name instead of _replacement_.


End file.
